beloved, beloved (hold on to the world)
by howlingmoonrise
Summary: ((Tam Lin retelling/AU, sort of)) D's kind is not easy to hold on to.


**psoh discord: hey would a tam lin au be cool or what**

**me, a folklore bitch, already opening my word processor so fast it freezes: shit shit fuck this is like my one weakness fuck you all**

* * *

It's something like a dream, almost.

Only.

Only, it's _not_.

"You want my grandchild?" a familiar face asks from under a hood, the sense of wrong-wrong-_wrong_ coming from it. "A human could never keep him."

And then he's flying out of the window - a bat, a rabbit, something in between - and into the night, framed by the long tongues of licking flames. They flare when the cold air hits, and so do his wounds, bleeding sluggishly.

D looks pale.

D looks pale, and frail, in a way he has never looked even at the worst of his illness. It's enough to make Leon worry, especially when he holds on to his stomach and bends, looking as if he's about to retch, but-

Leon can't exactly move. The world swims and tilts, blurred around the edges, blood-loss long past the point of saving. Not that it'd help much if it weren't. Not when they're on the half-blown penthouse of a burning building, with no way for anyone to anyone to reach him. No one even _knows_ he's there, other than D, and D is-

D is growing feathers. Leon observes this with only a minor amount of concern, given all the strange happenings of the night. That and the blood-loss. Yeah, _definitely_ the blood-loss.

But D doesn't seem calm, like sprouting feathers is as common as growing ivy from under his dress or any of the other strange things Leon might or might not have seen him do. He gasps, heaves, chokes, mismatched eyes locking on to Leon with panic. "Detective-" he seems about to say something more, and then chokes again, voice cut off. "Leon. _Leon_."

Leon is definitely more concerned now. "D?"

The transformation is faster now: D's eastern clothes have become a blurred thing at the edges, reflecting the light in a glossy way, and his hair grows longer, feathered around an elongated face. The bird-like creature D is becoming falters, one clawed foot half-landing in Leon's direction - like it wants to come closer, but also like it'd rather stay away.

Wounds burning, Leon pushes himself to a crouch, to his knees. "D?"

The bird does not look at him like he recognizes him. It looks like a wild thing: lost, panicked, ready to flee at the sight of flames.

Leon almost wants to let it.

But it's _D_, and if he lets go now, he'll lose him forever. There won't be any reconciliation, any apology, any goodbye; though he aches and he bleeds and he burns, Leon takes a step. Another. Another.

When the bird flees, Leon is heavy and half-dead on its back.

* * *

He opens his eyes to see blue skies. It makes no sense.

Last he remembers is a dark night, flames licking at the stars. Last he remembers is blood, and ivy, and a bat-rabbit flying away, like something out of a dream. But then everything aches and bleeds and burns, and the wind whips at his skin, and he remembers, and then what doesn't make sense is how he woke up at all.

He nearly slips at the reminder. His hands, even unconscious, have held on to this great bird, to this wild thing, to this creature of legend: fingers deep in glossy black feathers, legs holding tight. He's made them sticky with blood, but he doesn't dare let go long enough to check the damage: if he tries to move at all, he'll surely fall.

So he holds on. Holds on tight, through blurry sight and weakness and cold harsh winds, head pressed against the soft feathers of the nape that smell so much like D. If he lets go, he'll fall. If he lets go, he'll fall. But worst of all, if he lets go, then he'll lose D.

His consciousness is hazy, slipping through his fingers with every moment. Sometimes it goes away, and Leon thinks he won't wake up again at all, and then he does. Feeling weak, feeling nauseous, feeling like every thug in the world has beat him up at once, but he wakes up.

Of course he does.

Like he'll let D go that easily.

* * *

Eventually, they reach land.

Leon has no time to feel relieved, no time to breathe: he steels himself for landing, for his hands to finally give out, but what he does not expect is for the feathers to turn smooth beneath him, for the steady beating wings to turn to coils between his limbs. When they touch land it's no longer a bird he's holding on to, but a crested serpent larger than any man, hitting the ground with a slither that threatens to make him slide off from the very first moment. Its fangs are the size of his foot, dripping with venom, and Leon knows that if he lets them touch him, he is dead.

He digs his nails in deep, and does his best to hold on.

The serpent writhes, trashing erratically to throw him to the ground. Heavy. Fast. Brutal. Leon climbs closer to the head, each time he's forced to let go of one of his hands, scrabbling to find purchase over smooth scales; his nails bend and break against the toughness of the hide, the wounds on his body dragging and reopening as he's bucked off again and again and again. He can't hold on for much longer. He can't, he can't, he can't, no matter how much he wants to see D again; even his will isn't enough to make up for the strength he lacks, for the little life he has left.

And then D is shifting again, becoming a thing that scrabbles against the ground with many legs, and Leon's stomach turns with revulsion at the insectoid chittering coming from him. There are pincers rather than fangs; hard chitin rather than scales; antennas rather than eyes; nothing in it he could ever love, except the fact that somewhere inside, it's D, D, _D_. He fights instinctual flinches at the feeling of insect legs pulling at his skin, fights the bile rising when the antennas twitch and brush hair-like against his face and neck, fights the retching feeling in his stomach when he takes a good look at what exactly he is holding.

This time, it's not so much that he can't hold on as he doesn't _want_ to.

And he's weak. So, so weak, after a day and a night out of his worst nightmares, fighting for hours straight to stay alive. Fighting his weakness, the death that comes calling, the dizziness of blood-loss and the stretch of untreated burn marks; fighting D, when he is not himself. But this is D, the one person he never understood and yet understood too deeply; D, to whom he drifted when there was nowhere else and everywhere else to go; D, who had patched his wounds and laid gentle hands on his bloodied skin when Leon thought he'd want him dead.

He does not let go.

Time stretches on. D changes, again and again and again, weakening, shifting, fighting him at every step, as lost and as wounded as him. He becomes a fish, slippery in his hold; a wild cat, cunning and sharp; fur becomes scales becomes fur becomes mucus becomes feathers, full of fangs and poison and claws and muscles, always fighting, always trying to slip away.

And then, when twilight breaks, it stops.

There's a gentle weight in his arms, soft silk and softer skin in all the places it meets his. Cool, thin hair, fanning against his lips: Leon breathes it in, smelling foreign flowers and sweet incense, but also dust and blood and sweat.

"Leon," D says. It's not soft or measured or sharp, the way D usually speaks: it's raw, pained, heartfelt. "Leon?"

"D." Leon doesn't quite feel like there's a voice left in him. If there were, he could have said _you're a hard bastard to hold on to_. If there were, he could have said _if you are going to leave, do it as yourself_.

The truth is that Leon has a hard time letting go of things. His mother, his brother, childhood friends and past lovers: everyone leaves, in the end, leaving him behind with memories and heartbreak and choices gone wrong. D is no exception, and he has already left once.

But D deserves a choice, and now he can make it for himself.

So Leon holds him tight.

And then.

And then, he lets go.

* * *

The stretch of long-healed scars is almost comforting, in the mornings. Not a dream, he thinks, dragging newly-grown nails over slashes of white, drops of discoloured skin, ragged burn marks like fire licking at his skin. Not a dream, he thinks, remembering feathers and scales and claws and his own blood, dripping down, a sacrifice to earth and sky and flames.

Not a dream, he thinks, sitting down on his chair. The parlour is something that reminds him of years long past, of half-dreamed adventures and chases where he was never sure of anything at all. There's a hint of sunlight shining through a window that should not be there; a flawless table where the one back in LA had been ruined with a careless forgotten cigarette.

He dreams of it, sometimes. Of holding on with all his strength, only for his strength to fail: he's fallen into the ocean, been ground into the dirt, bled out when claws and teeth had torn him to shreds. Of being strong enough but letting go all the same, because he fears it, fears D, fears the creatures he becomes and fears himself most of all, a selfish human who wants to hold the world.

D's kind is not made for holding on to.

He's learned his lesson. Fought it long and hard, to the very end. He can't trap something that doesn't want to be trapped; can't fight for someone who doesn't want to be fought for. If he chases the creatures of his dreams and they run and don't return, then they aren't meant for him.

D slips through the curtains separating the shop from the back, tea tray in hand. Something like orange blossom tea, perhaps; something to complement the sweets Leon brought today, snuggled like cloud-soft pillows on their white box. D's favourite, if he can choose a favourite at all. His dark lips draw into a painted smile, as genuine and warm as the fragrant scent of the tea, welcoming him home.

D's kind is not made for holding on to.

But when they chose to stay, they stay for good.


End file.
